


Roots

by dreamsdark



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia, Fire Emblem Series
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon, childhood friends are my weakness, partially a sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-03 01:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11521356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamsdark/pseuds/dreamsdark
Summary: Forsyth teaches Python how to read.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I like the idea of Python calling Forsyth 'Fors' because, nickname, and also that's his jp name  
> it works
> 
> they're kids here, so

Python stares at his reflection in the water, only looking up when a stone is thrown near him, completely distorting it. 

“C’mon, Python, we gotta head back!”

Without him noticing, the sunset had dyed the water a deep red. It really is late, so Python climbs out of the stream, shaking his legs in an attempt to dry them. The motion causes his rolled-up pants to unroll and stick to his still damp legs, which means they’ll take even longer to dry now. Forsyth watches him impatiently as he attempts (and fails) to re-roll up even one pant leg. “Pythoooooon, hurry up!”

“Alright, yeesh.” He abandons his endeavor with a huff, settling for being mildly uncomfortable. 

Forsyth is holding a basket with the two fish they managed to catch with only a sharpened stick (they being just Forsyth, of course—Python didn’t have the reaction time or the motivation) with no small amount of pride, beaming. “Do you think Mother will let me cook them too?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” He scans the area for the tools he’d nicked from his father’s workshop that he’d brought to sharpen said sticks, finding them on a flat rock nearby. “Let’s go, Fors,” Python says after he gathers them up, making sure he’s got them all. He’d never hear the end of it if he’d lost even the most useless knife.

Forsyth runs ahead of him, stopping every few moments to let Python catch up while bouncing impatiently. “Why don’t you stay over?”

“Hm?”

“I mean, you should try the fish too, right? Since you helped.”

Right… _helped._ By standing around doing nothing. “Sure, why not.” Food was food, and it was more time with Forsyth besides. 

Python didn’t think it possible, but Forsyth smiles even wider.

* * *

Forsyth’s family was well-off enough that he has a room to himself; actually, he’d shared it with his older brother, but he’d moved out recently. So Python was free to wave goodnight to Forsyth’s younger sisters, then retreat to the relative privacy of Forsyth’s room and drag out a mat that was practically his with how much he stayed over.

Dinner was a half-success; at least one of the two fish they’d caught was deemed edible, and Forsyth’s mother was as good a cook as Python remembered. 

“Did you tell your parents you’re staying?”

“Eh, they won’t mind. ‘Sides, they probably expect it by now.” Python decides he isn’t quite tired yet, hopping onto Forsyth’s bed with a force that makes it creak.

“Hey!”

Ignoring his friend’s indignant shout, Python scans his room from his new vantage point. “That’s new,” he comments, leaning over Forsyth to point at a stack of books on the other side of his bed.

“Yes…Father decided I was neglecting my studies, so now I have to read all of them to prove I haven’t slipped. And knowing him, write reports as well…I suppose I should work on one now.” He sighs, clearly reluctant. Python never had to _read_ , but he could relate with the general feeling of not wanting to do something—which just made it stranger. Was this the same Forsyth he knew,  _not_  wanting to do something? “Could you hand me ‘The Frog Prince’?” 

Python rummages through the stack, half hanging off the bed with his legs on Forsyth’s lap. Through the dim lamplight, he sees that the cover of the third book on the pile has an illustration of a frog…thing with a crown on it, so he snatches it up, relieved. “Here you go.”

“…This is ‘The Toad King.’“

 _Dammit_. “Isn’t that the same thing.”

“Well, for one, toads and frogs are…”  _Here we go again._  But Forsyth seems set on knocking Python off-balance today, giving up his explanation to ask, “But the title’s here, couldn’t you tell?”

“Uh,” he replies, very clearly.

“…Python?” 

“Um, you know…” Forsyth is way too close right now for Python to make a convincing excuse, with their legs tangled together and Forsyth’s eyes boring into his own.

“Can you not read?”

Forsyth was perceptive at the most inconvenient times. “…maybe.” 

“Wait, really?”

“Not all our fathers can be scholars.” As awkward as it is, Python scrambles off the bed back to the relative safety of his mat, embarrassment creeping up the back of his neck.

“Oh! Then why don’t I teach you?”

“Come again?” That was certainly not what he expected Forsyth to say.

“I can teach you to read!  _And_  write.”

“Sure you can.”

Somehow, Forsyth completely overlooks the blatant sarcasm dripping from his voice, clapping his hands together. “Alright! Then you can come back here tomorrow afternoon. I’ll make a scholar out of you yet!”

He sounds so fired up; Python can’t disappoint him now. “As you insist, Sir Forsyth.”

* * *

As luck would have it, Python’s father did notice the missing tools—even though Python  _knew_  he didn’t actually use them—and confined him to his workshop for three days. During that, Python managed to create a whole lot of disappointment and one half-decent wood horse he decides to hide and give to Forsyth rather than show his father.

So it’s with a carving clutched in his hand that he makes his way towards Forsyth’s home. The hot afternoon sun beats down on him, and his palms grow sweaty. Hopefully he isn’t too mad at him for missing his lessons.

Python knocks, and is greeted by Forsyth’s youngest sister, who promptly kicks him in the shin. “Ow! What the he—heck!”

“You’re a big meanie!” She punches him in the side for good measure. “You made my brother sad, and now he won’t play with us!”

“Eh…oh, damn it all,” he curses, momentarily forgetting himself. “Sorry, sorry, I’ll get right on it,” he placates, holding his hands up in surrender. 

She glares at him. “You damn well will!” she commands, hands on her hips with all the imposing presence a nine-year-old could muster. And now she’d picked  _that_  up from him. He’d never hear the end of it if Forsyth ever overheard.

“Don’t say that, please…” Python pleads, probably without effect, as he slips into Forsyth’s room. “Hey, what’s up with…oh.” Forsyth is sitting on his bed, surrounded by a mess of papers and open books. He doesn’t even look up when Python enters. “Fors?” 

That gets his attention, at least. “Python,” he acknowledges, voice flat, still refusing to look at him.

“Ah…” At a loss for words, he stands in the doorway awkwardly. Should he apologize? But it’s not like it was his fault he couldn’t come!

“Are you here to laugh at me?”

“What?”

“I worked so hard, and then you didn’t even…” Forsyth sniffs and presses his hands to his eyes, which does a terrible job of suppressing his tears. “I just wanted t-to…”

“Aw, Fors…I’m sorry, I really am.” No matter the reason, he decides, abandoning his friend when they’d promised to meet was still a shitty thing to do. “C’mere.” He has to stretch a bit, but manages to get his arms around Forsyth without messing up any of the papers strewn on his bed. “Shhh…I got you.” Python tries to rub his back comfortingly, as Forsyth sobs into the crook of his neck, clutching him almost painfully tight. “You know I wouldn’t make fun of you. Not like that, at least.” 

“Y-yeah…’m sorry. I’m overreacting again…” he mumbles, sniffling.

“You’ve always been a crybaby. It’s my fault this time, though.”

Forsyth sniffs one last time, then lets Python go, rubbing his puffy eyes. “So why…”

“Pa actually noticed the stuff I took, and you know how he is.”

“You  _stole_  those?” And Forsyth’s already bounced back.

“Borrowed.  _Borrowed!_  I only kept them for a day, and even returned them!”

“Borrowing without telling is still stealing, Python,” he lectures.

“Whatever you say, Teach.”

“Wait, the lesson!” Forsyth starts frantically gathering the papers into stacks. Python would try to help, but he has no clue how they’re supposed to be organized.

“How ‘bout we hold off on that?”

“Do you not—”

“Just for today. You could probably use another day to prepare, right?” Forsyth’s still a mess from crying anyway, and there was no way Python could make it through the lesson today without looking at him and feeling guilty every time. “Now close your eyes.”

Forsyth obeys without hesitation. Python’s struck with the realization that it’d be so easy to take advantage of someone so trusting—well, that’s why he’s here. To make sure Forsyth’s kindness doesn’t get the better of himself.

Python presses the carving into Forsyth’s hand, only a little apprehensive. He’d like it, right…or should he have added armor? A rider with a lance?  _Forsyth_ with a lance?

In his overthinking, he fails to notice Forsyth staring at the figure in awe. “Python, this is incredible!”

“It’s not all that.”

“Don’t sell yourself short! Here.” Forsyth makes to hand it back.

“…It’s for you. To keep.” He thought he’d made that obvious enough, but apparently not.

“Really?” His eyes light up, which for some reason makes it hard for Python to meet them directly.  _Too bright_ , he reasons, looking off to the side.

“Really. Now could you convince your sister to stop attacking me?” His shin still throbbed—she had a  _strong_  kick for such a tiny body.

“She  _what_?” He’s out of his room in an instant. “Mina! What do you think you’re doing?”

“Giving the bastard what he deserves!” she declares with a completely out-of-place smile.

“ _PYTHON!_ ” 

Oh come on, this one wasn’t even his fault! …Probably!

* * *

 Forsyth isn’t the most patient teacher, but at least he isn’t condescending. 

That doesn’t stop Python from hating how little he knows. 

“Can you read any of this?”

“…”

“Python? You have to say something.”

“I can’t, okay! I don’t…I’ve hardly ever looked at a book, much less…” Python takes a breath, willing himself to calm down; he shouldn’t snap at Forsyth for his own shortcomings. Python had never even cared for literacy until Forsyth had brought it up. He’d never gone to school, only been trained in carpentry to eventually take over his father’s business.

Forsyth just blinks in surprise. “Never? That’s…Sorry, I can’t even imagine it. I’ve seen so many books I’m almost sick of them!” 

“So you hate reading?”  _Then why are you teaching me?_

“Hate? I don’t feel that strongly…I’d just rather be a knight than sit around reading all day.” 

“You and your dreams…” It was admirable how Forsyth stuck with something so impossible. His determination almost made Python believe he could actually accomplish them someday.

Forsyth’s not listening to him, though, riffling through his papers. “First we need the basics, so…” Python nods, not that he really knows what Forsyth’s going on about.

What he does notice is that Forsyth sticks out the tip of his tongue when he concentrates, which is way too distracting for Python to ever be able to focus on anything. 

“Aha!” He holds up a sheet in triumph. “Found it!” Forsyth grabs Python’s arm, dragging him to his side.

“Let’s hear it, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the summary doesn't pertain much to the actual content, huh...  
> this could read platonically, too...do as you wish
> 
> reading is fun...but less fun when you /have/ to  
> the book title is a really obscure nonsensical reference...i think someone will catch it tho--
> 
> I wrote this entirely on a plane ride to  
> and the next chapter on the plane ride back  
> plane rides are surprisingly good places to write?


	2. Chapter 2

What Python hates the most about being sick is how sluggish everything is. Everything sounds like he’s hearing it through three layers of brick, and it takes even longer to register the meaning.

Despite that, he hears Forsyth loud and clear, even from outside.

“Python! Trying to shirk your lessons?”

_I wish._

“Don’t think you can get out that easily!” There’s the front door being slammed open, there’s Forsyth stomping up the stairs, there’s his door thrown aside with just as much force…

“Python!” And there’s Forsyth’s voice, even louder. Usually, Python would be glad to hear it, but not when he has a headache so bad he can barely see straight.

“Keep—” A sneeze. “—your voice down!” he manages to gasp out before sneezing again.

“You’re sick!”

“ _I know_.” He blows his nose, which is gross and slimy and what he decides is the new worst part of being sick. “So you can go home.”

“And leave you sick and alone?” 

 _Please_ , he thinks, unable to find his breath.

At Python’s apparent silence, Forsyth proclaims, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you!”

_That’s the reason I’m worried…_

“But how to go about this…I know!”  _Oh no._  ”I’ll make you soup!” He turns to head down to the kitchen, and Python can already sense the impending disaster.

“ _Don’t!_ ” He scrambles across the bed, hand outstretched, hanging off the edge unsteadily, falling—

“Gotcha.” Steady hands catch him, saving his head from a painful encounter with the floor, then lift him back up. They stay on Python’s shoulders, grounding him until he gets his breath back slowly to avoid coughing. “You okay?”

“Mm.” He reaches for a glass of water at his bedside and gulps it down. 

“I’m not that bad of a cook, you know.”

He doesn’t actually know, but shakes his head. Usually he’d say something more, but that was the last of his water and he did not want to get up to get more. 

“If you won’t let me make soup, what else can I…” 

“You don’t  _have_  to do anything, Fors.”

“But I  _want_  to!” Forsyth looks around the room, like he’ll suddenly be struck with inspiration. “Maybe I brought something?” He rummages around in his bag, pulling out a pouch of… “Want a sugarcube?”

“What are you, a horse?” Forsyth could never resist his sweet tooth. “And no thanks, I’m already sick.” 

“I still don’t get how you can’t like sweets.” He pops one in his mouth, then puts the pouch back to make sure he doesn’t eat all of them at once.

“Easily is how.” He coughs, which distracts Forsyth from whatever retort he was planning.

“I’ll get some water!” He’s out of the room before Python can stop him, and back before Python can even think of how he could have. Once Forsyth had his heart set on something, it’d take a force that could move mountains to turn him around.

“Thanks.” Python sets the empty glass aside. “You should really—”

“Mother always read to me when I was sick.” Out of his bag comes a book. “Where is your mother, anyway?”

“Market.” Knowing her, she’d be gone most of the day trying to haggle down prices.

“That’s today? Then it’s a good thing you have me here!” He sits on the edge of the bed, flipping through the pages. 

“Sure is.” Python settles down, pulling the covers back over himself.

Forsyth starts reading, unusually quiet. Perhaps he was imitating his mother; whatever the reason, it means that his words soon fade out into a meaningless jumble, then further still as Python falls asleep to the comforting sound of his voice.

**Author's Note:**

> this didn't really fit with the first part, so separate chapter it is  
> sickfics are my weakness...so i write a lot of them...
> 
> my tumblr ([dreamy--dark](http://dreamy--dark.tumblr.com/))


End file.
